The city never sleeps. Even from a hospital window on the fifth floor I can see the glow of neon signs, the endless flow of traffic, and the sirens wailing somewhere in the distance. It should be comforting. Life going on, the world continuing. But it isn't.
Because someone wanted me dead.
And someone else, someone I do not know, made sure I did not die.
I try to piece together that night. I was asleep when the fire started. The smoke was everywhere. I remember the heat pressing against my skin, the crackle of flames devouring everything I loved. Then hands. Strong, decisive, pulling me from the inferno.
I do not know who it was
No note, no face, no name. Just memory. Just the shadow of a stranger who saved me.
Visitors come and go. The nurses check vitals. My mother hovers. My sister asks questions I cannot answer. And I notice him, the man who was there the day I woke. Standing silently in the corner. Observing.
I try to focus. Who is he? Why does he linger, unseen by everyone else, yet somehow present?
A text on my phone startles me. Unknown number.
You are not safe. Trust no one.
My stomach twists. I try to call my sister, my mother, anyone, but the line fails. The message is gone by the time I try to open it again. My fingers tremble. Someone is already in my life, moving in shadows, and I have no idea who.
The city hums beneath me, indifferent, unaware. And yet every light, every street, every shadow feels like it could hold the truth or death.
I close my eyes, remembering the fire. Remembering the hands that pulled me out. And the doorway that watched me die.
I am alive.
But the danger is closer than I ever imagined.